A Middle-earth Mary Sue Tragedy
by LilyBaggins
Summary: The author makes a disgraceful Mary Sue, with the object of her affections far beyond her reach . . .
1. Dropped in Moria

TITLE: A Middle-earth Mary Sue Tragedy  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: R (likely won't be more than PG-13, but I want to be on the safe side. Some mild profanity . . . sexual suggestion, but no sex.)  
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time  
  
Summary: I was coerced into this. The author makes a disgraceful Mary Sue.  
  
Note: There may be some slashy overtones in some of this, as it's from my point of view as a writer of slash. However---there will be NO actual slash or sex between any of the characters (including, sniff sniff, myself).  
  
Thank you to Baranduin for the inspiration to use "Tragedy" in the title  
  
***  
  
It all started out quite innocently enough. I was at the gym, merely listening to the Fellowship of the Ring soundtrack on my Walkman as I ran on the treadmill at approximately five miles per hour, barely able to do even that. I wasn't in the best shape, I'll admit. And I suppose Lord of the Rings music isn't the best for working out, either, but I had extended my love of all things Frodo to even my exercise regimen, and the drumbeats in The Bridge of Khazad-dum do in fact lend themselves to speedwalking.   
  
So it was that I was humming steadily along, clad in my old nylon jogging shorts which, unfortunately, showed my saddlebags; my oversized t-shirt with sweat stains under the arm; and my fairly new, thankfully, Adidas running shoes. And as The Ring Goes South came on, I began to speed up a bit, going faster and faster and faster . . .   
  
Suddenly the world flashed by in an instant and I felt a huge gust of chill wind and landed on something quite solid beneath my back. Hard rock. Quite hard. And slimy. Ugh.   
  
The first thing I heard was a most gruesome hissing noise. Then, an older male voice. "It's Gollum."  
  
Another voice. "Gollum?"  
  
"He's been following us for three days."   
  
My stars. I knew that line---I knew that voice. Had it finally happened to me as well? I had read many stories of women falling into Middle-earth, but never thought I would be so lucky. I mean---I had a fairly decent, rewarding life, a good job---Mary Sues usually came from really terrible backgrounds.   
  
That was my first thought. My second was: "Damn, why did I end up in Moria? All the other Mary Sues ended up in Rivendell tending to Frodo with his Morgul wound." My second thought was: "Crud. I have no razor and my legs are going to be hairy in these shorts in a couple of days." The third thought I won't share with you, but it had to do with my suddenly realizing that Frodo was surely only a few yards away when I heard, "Then he escaped the dungeons of Barad-dur?"  
  
I sat up a bit, looking about, and poked my head over a rock---the very rock Frodo had been sitting on just an instant before. I felt it---still a bit warm from his rounded tushy. Mmmmmm . . .   
  
And there he was---sitting next to Gandalf, his back to me. But nevertheless, I drank in his green cloak and dark curls as I continued to listen to their conversation. Hey---he WAS older than me, even if not taller.  
  
"Ah---it's THAT way!" Gandalf suddenly said, and the others began to rise. As they did, Frodo turned a bit and must have caught sight of me. Suddenly his eyebrows creased together in a look of pure and utter horror as his big blue eyes fixed on me and his adorable lips opened widely as if to scream. Oh dear. I was giving my favorite hobbit a heart attack. "Gandalf! What . . . what is it?"  
  
Within an instant they were all about me, weapons pointed, bows nocked, ready to take my bespectacled head off. I sighed, waiting for them to be taken in by my awe-inspiring beauty. Surely I had changed as I fell into Middle-earth---I had to be gorgeous now. But when I reached up to feel my head, I realized I still had bleached-blond hair in a messy ponytail, glasses because I'd been too lazy to put my contacts in, and that blemish I'd been fretting over earlier that morning. I was hardly Arwen's rival, and unkempt as I was, probably not even Lobelia Sackville-Baggins's.   
  
Aragorn looked very sternly down at me, his eyes boring into my skull as he asked me who I was, and I would be quite lying if I said I didn't feel a bit of a sudden flush from his gaze. Quite lying.   
  
Frodo decided to cut in at that moment with his own complimentary thoughts. "It looks a bit . . . a bit like . . .Gollum. Perhaps a relation?"   
  
Gandalf shook his head. "Not skinny enough. Obviously female, however. Now, my child, where do you come from?"  
  
"I am uh . . . a traveler . . . uh . . . I don't know where I'm from," I told him, hoping that would be a good enough answer. Most Mary Sues didn't know anyway.  
  
"What is your name?"   
  
Oh my. What name to give? My real name? Nah . . . my pseudonym. "Uh, Lily . . . Ba . . . uh . . . Baker."  
  
Gandalf nodded. "Well, Aragorn, we must take her with us. To leave her behind might spell evil---she could inform others of our whereabouts."  
  
Boromir and Aragorn exchanged a glance---I think---I was too busy glancing at Frodo every chance I got. I didn't wish anything ill to happen to the hobbit, but now that I knew I was to accompany them, I told myself that I would make sure I witnessed the Mithril Mail Shirt Removal to Treat the Cave Troll Wound. Ah yes . . . definitely. And perhaps, I told myself, this damp air would give Frodo a bit of a chill, whereby he might feel a bit feverish and I might be required to sponge him down . . . gracious, what was I thinking? At that moment I felt quite like a loser. A very lustful loser.   
  
Finally the ranger nodded. "Very well---you come with us." Aragorn gave me a withering glance, raising his eyebrows at my---for Middle-earth---ridiculous outfit.   
  
And so we set off at a rather rapid pace.   
  
  
AFTER FOUR HOURS OF MARCHING IN SILENCE . . .   
  
I was lucky to have my Adidas shoes on, but nevertheless, I was quite huffing in a short time. And worst of all, I was at the back with Boromir---Frodo was a good bit ahead. His head just came up to my chest, and I tried not to think of the implications of that. I must admit I spent a good deal of time watching him from the back, a little mad that his cloak hid his fine---if small---rear end. Damn. That meant I would have to look at Aragorn's.   
  
I also kept concentrating really hard to see if I'd developed any magical powers, or faerie wings, or long curly auburn hair, or something interesting or unusual, but to no avail. I seemed to be just the same ole' me. Double damn. You know, I thought I'd turn into a hobbit---but since I could still fit into my shoes and was still the fourth tallest member of the company, I knew that had not come to pass.   
  
Soon it was time to take a break, and we all sat down again, Frodo as far from me as possible. Hmmm . . . this was going to drive me bonkers. If I had to be dropped into Middle-earth, replete with war and mayhem and no Hershey bars or Big Macs and Ring-angst and plagues and barbaric medicine, the least I deserved was to get to cuddle Frodo a bit. Would he mind so very much? I only wanted a *little* feel. Just even a tiny squeeze would do.   
  
We made a small stop---a bathroom break, if you will. Luckily these were all males here. All they had to do was aim for a chasm and that was that. No, I didn't see any of them doing that---I did try to watch, trust me----but they strayed too far out of sight.   
  
But me---I had to squat. Luckily, Gandalf trusted me to go off in some privacy. I had to squat over the cold stone and pull my nylon shorts down, hoping against hope that 1) I didn't get them wet, and 2) I could do without makeshift toilet tissue in Moria, and 3) an Orc didn't come upon me while in such an undignified position.   
  
Well, I had rather it had been an Orc, truth to tell.   
  
I was squatting---nearly finished, you know---when I heard the patter of small footsteps behind me and a horrified gasp. Of course it caught me terribly by surprise and I stood hastily, wincing at the lovely feeling of having NO Quilted Northern as I pulled my shorts up and spun about.   
  
And cursed. Frodo was just flying around the corner .   
  
Lovely. He had had come here unsuspecting , probably to relieve himself (what else would he be doing? Oooo . . . don't think about that) and had been treated to the intriguing sight of my gigantic---at least to him---naked lumpy buttocks hanging out. Just lovely.   
  
"Frodo---don't go!" I called, pulling my shorts up, oblivious to the fact that I was possibly alerting thousands of scimitar-wielding Orcs intent on rape and decapitation to our destination.   
  
And Frodo stopped, turning back around and slowly walking toward me, giving me a somewhat haughty look---the same one he used on Boromir in the Amon Hen scene, if you recall. Really, he's got the pout thing down. I could just reach out and grab that lower lip . . .   
  
"What do you want?" he asked, his hand going to the hilt of Sting. Oh dear. I was scaring him.   
  
I looked down at him, wondering what to say. I could not say what I really wanted, so . . . "I want us to be friends." There---that was the standard Mary Sue line. "I would like to help you on this quest."   
  
He kept staring at me, then looked down at the floor, biting his lip as if thinking things through. "And what makes you believe you can help me?" he asked, before once again capturing me with those big blue peepers. "Who *are* you?"  
  
I was spared answering as Aragorn came around the corner, his sword drawn. "What is this? Frodo, I thought I heard you gasp in fear!"  
  
"It was nothing," Frodo told him. "I saw her nude buttocks, and they frightened me."  
  
"Her nude buttocks?" He turned to glare at me. "Why, pray tell?"   
  
I sighed. "It was an accident. I was simply using the restroom . . ."  
  
"What is a restroom?"   
  
"Relieving myself . . . I was relieving myself."  
  
By now, we had created a ruckus, and Gandalf suddenly appeared.   
  
"What is this, Aragorn?" Gandalf asked.   
  
"Apparently Lily showed Frodo her nude body, and it frightened him out of his wits."  
  
The wizard stared at me. "Why would you do such a thing?"  
  
"Look, it was *not* my nude body---just my butt---"  
  
"Gandalf! Aragorn!" Boromir's voice. "What is this?"   
  
Gandalf sighed. "Apparently our 'guest' saw fit to crush Frodo's face against her nude bosom."   
Now I was mad. "I did not! I might have thought it, but I never---"  
  
Frodo now jumped in. "Really, it was not that at all ---"  
  
"Mr. Frodo!! Mr. Frodo!! Where are you?"   
  
"Sam, over here!" Aragorn called, and the hobbit ran up, quite breathless, and scowled at me.   
  
Boromir laid a hand on Sam's arm to comfort. "Lily here was trying to seduce your Mr. Frodo, Sam. She had all her clothes off and was dancing nude on that rock there for him."  
  
"My Mr. Frodo? Innocent Mr. Frodo? Oh dear . . ."  
  
"I *was* not, I tell you!" But to no avail. They all started talking at once, Frodo trying to explain and no one listening, and finally Gandalf shouted, "QUIET!" and they did, in fact, quiet. This time Aragorn, keeping his hands on the hobbit's shoulders and pulling Frodo to lean against him, stared at me with hard eyes.   
  
"Go now, back to the camp. I will take care of Frodo."   
  
I held my hands out. "I did nothing! I swear . . . "  
  
"Whatever you did, you scared him half to death. Now, go back with the others."  
  
I sighed, walking off with the others, but I kept craning my neck around to watch the two of them . . . I heard Frodo's voice. "Really, Aragorn . . . she . . ." And Aragorn was kneeling now, in front of Frodo, talking softly to him . . . "It's all right Frodo---it must have been a terrible thing to see . . ."  
  
Hmmmph. I was miffed. But still looking back behind me. Ah, Saruman's fingernails, this was making me curious. What were they fixing to do? What were they saying to each other? Their heads were awfully close. Ah, I wanted to SEE this tender hobbit-ranger moment! It was killing me.   
  
But that mean ranger turned to look at me again and I had no choice but to return.   
  
Back with the other I sat and ate my rations, not speaking. The others---especially Sam---kept giving me narrow-eyed looks. Soon Frodo and Aragorn came back, not looking at me, and sat. What had transpired? Now, I could hear Gandalf and Aragorn talking softly to each other and looking my direction every once in a while with strange looks on their faces. I imagine, from the few words I caught, they were figuring out whether to leave me in Lothlorien or the Chamber of Marzarbul.   
  
I had thought of at least one good thing---I would surely lose weight doing all this walking and eating rations. Until I saw the rations. Sausage. About the most fattening thing anybody could eat. Some cheese. Oh man---my lactose intolerance just could NOT act up in the closed mines of this place. I set that aside. Hard bread---I think one of my fillings came out in it.   
  
What they do NOT tell you is that no one in Middle-earth has very attractive teeth. I had it over everybody there---mine were whiter and a bit more shapely. But that's it. My hair was sweaty now, making Aragorn's look lustrous in comparison, I had no makeup on, my face was a bit broken out due to hormones----suddenly I cursed, quite loudly, causing them all to stare at me.   
  
"What is it, my child?" Gandalf asked kindly. He apparently did not hold grudges. And he probably knew that even if I danced on a rock naked, it would be of no consequence to the Ring-bearer.   
  
I shook my head. "Nothing." What I did *not* tell them was that I knew "that time of the month" was coming soon---if such things came in Middle-earth, which I'm sure they did---and how in tarnation was I going to cope with that in the Mines of Moria? I hoped, really, hoped, we'd make it to Lothlorien before that. I could at least grab some moss or something.   
  
Frodo was eating with the other hobbits, quite ignoring me. Was he looking a bit flushed? Maybe a bit feverish? His nose looked a bit red, and he rubbed it as I watched surreptitiously. I sat very still, waiting for a sneeze, drinking in his adorable features and luminous eyes. What a darling creature. I didn't care about his size or his hairy feet---I only knew I had to touch him. Just one itty bitty touch, is all I wanted. Just to run my fingers through his hair, maybe. And cradle him if he fell ill.   
  
I had to wonder at myself. Of course I did NOT want to see Frodo get sick---I'd be a sick person if I wished that on him, right? What was that syndrome when mothers purposely make their kids sick just for attention from medical professionals and relatives? Oh, yes---Munchausen by Proxy Syndrome. Did I have Munchausen by Hobbit Syndrome?   
  
Of course, I was NOT Frodo's mother, and I certainly wasn't going to *make* him sick---I just wanted him to catch a slight little chill---just perhaps a sore throat and headache---and possibly seek the comfort of a warm bosom. Even if my buttocks were lumpy. Ah . . . Frodo breathing softly against my bosom. I mean---I was the only one there who HAD a bosom. Surely it would be comforting? Whatever happened, I had to cuddle him before Lothlorien. There were far too many beautiful elf-girl bosoms there to compete with.  
  
Not that the hobbit would ever come near me. He barely looked my way, and when he did, it was with a definite expression of . . . not contempt, but intense distrust, much as he'd looked at Gollum. Except that right now, Gollum was probably more attractive than I was.   
  
No, I could only hope that if Frodo met with any illnesses or injuries, I'd at least get to see Aragorn caring for him. Ah, now maybe if Aragorn got sick . . . Frodo would need some comforting . . . and I did know Gandalf would be falling. Yes, I would BE there. I would be there to pick Frodo up and drag him away instead of Boromir.   
  
  
AFTER FOUR MORE HOURS OF ENDLESS MARCHING IN SILENCE IN THE COLD DARK OF MORIA. . .   
  
Ah, time to sleep. We bedded down for the night---me on the edge in a makeshift bedroll given to me by Boromir. The blanket was woolly and scratchy, and I wondered how anyone could sleep on this hard rock. Ugh.   
  
Of course I watched the others as they slept---Gandalf had first watch and kept his staff lit up. Aragorn slept half sitting up as if he was still alert, and his eyes, I noted, kept straying to Frodo---especially the hobbit's firm bottom when he took his cloak off and bent over to lay his bedroll out. Oh yes, the ranger's eyes were misty . . . a bit glazed with what I presumed to be . . . mad lust.   
  
Were the two of them . . . ? Hmmm . . . I would have to watch this even more closely after what happened earlier. If I ever saw them going off together, I would spy on them. I would watch. I have my dignity, but only to a certain point.   
  
But this evening, at least, Frodo sought the companions of his hobbit comrades. He curled into a tiny ball, pulling his blankets close and snuggling up next to Sam and Merry and Pippin. How utterly beautiful he looked---his long lashes falling on his cheeks . . . his pink lips slightly parted . . .   
  
Sighing, I lay down on the hard rock to try to sleep. Listening for any sniffling coming from the hobbit.   
  
But to no avail. No sneezes. No sniffles. That meant no fever-sponging . . . no cuddling. Dang.   
  
To be continued 


	2. Silently Watching

It was a restless night, that first night I spent in Moria.   
  
I lay on my bedroll a long time, unable to sleep, stealing glances at Frodo---what little I could see of him from where I lay. And listening to all four hobbits' breathing. I fancied, after a while, that I could separate Frodo's exhalations from the others. And then suddenly---was I mistaken, or had a tiny cough emitted from those fragile hobbit lungs of his?   
  
Moria was a nasty, damp place---not good for anyone susceptible to pulmonary difficulties. Nosirree. I certainly hoped Frodo did not become ill (okay, just a leeeetttle cold) but if he did . . . what would we do? Aragorn would have to make teas and we'd have to keep him well-wrapped and of course hold him carefully and remove his clothing and monitor his temperature---damn, why had I not put a rectal thermometer in my pocket before going to the gym? If only I had known, I could have been prepared.   
  
Leaning up a bit, I peered at him as he lay curled up, admiring the way his fanny rounded out nicely in sleep. Oh---the poor thing was shivering. I YEARNED to crawl over to where he was and draw him to me . . . maybe it would get REALLY cold and then I'd have to warm him up with skin-to-skin contact---  
  
All right, enough wishful thinking. I lay back down and squirmed, pulling at my jog bra, which was chafing quite uncomfortably under my t-shirt. Why had I been transported wearing this thing? Why, it made my breasts as flat as pancakes. How come I hadn't dropped into Middle-earth wearing a chiffon nightgown and a Miracle Bra?   
  
Never mind that I owned neither of those things. Just wait until I got to Lothlorien and pushed these babies up with some kind of fancy Elvish corset. THEN Frodo would want to rest his head against them.   
  
Don't say it's impossible. I know he fancies tall women---"Fair lady Goldberry! Oh slender as a willow-wand! Oh clearer than clear water!" and all such sweet-tongued talk. If old Tom Bombadil hadn't been in the picture . . . and you know, when he descended the steps to Galadriel's Mirror, he looked rather like he was thinking, if you'll pardon the crude expression, "I'm fixing to get laid."   
  
However, I am neither Goldberry nor Galadriel, and God forbid, not Arwen. I do have light hair, thanks to L'Oreal Frost and Tip. Don't ask me what clearer than clear water means---I have no idea, but I'm quite certain it would not apply to me anyway.   
  
"Why are you staring at Frodo?"  
  
I must have jumped ten feet. Unbeknownst to me, Pippin had been watching me out of curiosity and had crawled over. I was surprised---surely he had been warned to stay away from me? But then I remembered this hobbit's penchant for not heeding his elders' advice.   
  
"I am not staring at Frodo. Shouldn't you be asleep?"  
  
"I'm too hungry. And you *are* staring at my cousin---are you after the Ring?"  
  
"No. Of course not."  
  
"I thought not. Your eyes do linger over parts of his body that aren't close to the Ring. You must be sweet on Frodo."   
  
"I am not."  
  
"Better not let Aragorn or Sam find out."   
  
"I won't."   
  
"So you do want my cousin?"  
  
"No, no, for the last time, no! Gracious." I was going to lie---lie through my teeth.  
  
"Well . . . I heard you showed him your private parts and gave him a terrible fright."  
  
"My priv---now look here----" I was becoming exasperated and now really just wanted to go to sleep. Contrary to popular belief, this hobbit's cuteness wears off after five minutes of intense questioning.   
  
Suddenly Gandalf's voice rang out in a very loud stage whisper. "Peregrin Took, you will CEASE this mindless chatter."   
  
Frowning, the hobbit went back to his sleeping spot next to the others, lying down and purposely burying his face in Frodo's shiny curls with an evil little grin at me.   
  
***  
  
ANOTHER SIX HOURS OF MARCHING IN SILENCE EXCEPT FOR GIMLI'S GRUMBLINGS . . .   
  
I marched blearily onward, at the back of the Fellowship with Legolas and Gimli, ready to clock the dwarf on the head if I heard the phrase "red meat off the bone" one more time. There was only one sort of meat I was interested in, and it . . . never mind. Anyway, all those two did was argue, and since I was immune to Legolas's handsomeness---well, for the most part---it just served to make me seethe inside. We had to be reaching the Chamber of Marzarbul soon, I knew. The Fellowship was only in Moria for four days or so and had spent some time there before I dropped in on them.   
  
Meanwhile, my hobbit was on up ahead, walking with Aragorn and Gandalf. Ever since we'd risen that morning he had kept his distance, merely looking at me a bit fearfully when he'd caught me staring at him as he chewed his breakfast of dried fruit. He is quite a doll when chewing, I must say.   
  
I had to stop this staring or I'd be outed. Pippin was watching me all the time. Seriously, I wouldn't call myself a hobbit fancier, per se---there was only one hobbit I fancied. And I definitely would not have kicked Aragorn out of my bedroll, either. The ranger's long legs were quite a treat to behold.   
  
"Everyone, careful," Gandalf suddenly cautioned. We had apparently come to another crumbling stairway and had to crawl on our hands and knees in single file to scale it. I tried to get behind Frodo in case he needed steadying, but to no avail---Aragorn was there. Well, if I got to see Aragorn place his hands on Frodo's rump, it would all be worth MY not getting to, I suppose . . . maybe it would give Aragorn ideas. Hmmmm . . .   
  
In fact, the thought so disquieted me that I lost my balance on the stairs momentarily and slid downward, feeling my knee scrape painfully as a pair of firm hands caught my bottom, keeping me from falling. I looked around---oh dear. It was Gimli---Gimli had his dwarven hands on my rear end. I mouthed a small thanks, realizing I SHOULD be thankful, but dang it, I am sure he was able to see right up my shorts. Lovely. Just lovely.   
  
As we ascended the rocky stairway to solid ground I looked around, making sure no one else---meaning Frodo---was injured---and found them all in one piece. But my knee was burning quite miserably and bleeding, to boot. I'd managed in my clumsiness to scrape a good patch of skin off it.   
  
Looking around at everyone, Aragorn noticed my bleeding leg and, reaching into his pack, pulled out some clean cloth and tossed it my way. "Clean it, but do not use the water here---it may be contaminated. Use water out of the canteen, sparingly."  
  
And that was that. Hot fury welled up in me. I had been cheated! Aragorn was supposed to sit me down and gently dab at my knee while shaking his head in sympathy, murmuring tender reassurances, dang it. And Frodo might at least offer to hold my leg steady as it was treated, gazing at me with big blue eyes every so often in wonder.   
  
Then, after seeing how sore my leg would be, Aragorn was supposed to suggest that he carry me. Of course I would refuse---until I gave out and he was forced to cart me about. I realize I weigh MUCH more than a hobbit, but hey---he and Legolas could tote me together. That would meet with my approval, as long as Frodo was there to stroke my forehead.   
  
THAT was the way it was supposed to be. Hmmmmph.   
  
I quickly cleaned my knee, wishing at least Frodo would kneel down and blow on it softly to ease the pain, and then we were off again.   
  
Soon, I started alternating thoughts of Frodo with thoughts of food. Ah . . .I would have killed for chocolate. Or even fresh milk, despite my lactose problem. Sonic onion rings and Outback Steakhouse's cheese fries with "crispy bacon." Or buffalo wings. Yes, buffalo wings with that spicy red sauce coating him, er . . . them, I mean . . .   
  
We finally took a break in which I made absolutely positively certain I found an isolated spot to relieve myself. I had already ruined one hobbit for life; no need to scare the others as well. After dripping dry, I made my way back to the Fellowship---but not before I heard soft hobbit voices. Hiding, I listened.   
  
Merry was talking. "So, Frodo, are you quite recovered after your ordeal of yesterday?"   
  
The dark-haired ADORABLE ONE nodded and grimaced, reaching up to rub his shoulder. "Her buttocks did cause my wound to ache a bit---but it is better now."  
  
My eyes widened. The stress of viewing my unclothed backside had caused his Nazgul injury to flare up. Oh dear. The least I could do was remove his clothing and wash his shoulder with athelas, but I had a feeling he would not go for that . . . clearing my throat, I entered the camp again, studiously not looking at the others, waiting for my lovely lunch of rations.   
  
Dried meat and cheese. The Atkins Diet of Middle-earth. I sat eating---gnawing would be more like it, trying not to stare at Frodo's pink lips enclosing a piece of bread. And then---oh dear---he actually licked his fingers when he was finished, his tongue flickering over the tips lightly. This was going to kill me.  
  
And then it happened.   
  
He sneezed.   
  
To be continued 


	3. Biding Time

TITLE: A Middle-earth Mary Sue Tragedy 3/?  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: R (likely won't be more than PG-13, but I want to be on the safe side. Some mild profanity . . . sexual suggestion, but no sex.)  
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time  
  
Summary: I was coerced into this. The author makes a disgraceful Mary Sue.  
  
Note: There may be some slashy overtones in some of this, as it's from my point of view as a writer of slash. However---there will be NO actual slash or sex between any of the characters (including, sniff sniff, myself).   
  
**There may be descriptions of bodily functions in certain chapters---please don't read if it squicks you.   
  
*Thank you to Febobe for some great sick-Frodo inspiration here. :)  
  
***  
  
Frodo sneezed not ONCE, but twice, people.   
  
Hearing the noise, I jerked my head up so fast I was afraid I'd get whiplash---was he wiping his nose? Yes, indeed he was. I ignored the fact that watching someone wiping his nose is not the most appetizing lunch pastime. Understand---this was FRODO wiping his nose. Everything he did was adorable---I would even watch him clean out his ears if I got a chance to. Shoot---I would pay good money to do it for him! Touching just one pointed ear would be the highlight of my year, indeed . . . now, was he catching a chill?  
  
I listened for another sneeze. Everyone sneezes in pairs---at least *I* do---and that could indicate merely reacting to some dust in the air. But if he sneezed AGAIN---that might mean something insidious. Bad strains of bacteria or viruses trying to invade his delicate nasal passages. Yes, a third sneeze would surely bring Aragorn running over to make certain Frodo was sound in mind and body. And if I was lucky, who knew which of Frodo's orifices our ranger would peek at.  
  
However, at the moment no one else was making much of it.   
  
AND THEN . . . HE SNEEZED AGAIN.   
  
Gandalf looked in his direction and spoke. "I think you may be catching a cold, Frodo. Do you feel all right?"  
  
The hobbit nodded. "Just a bit of a headache, is all."  
  
A HEADACHE! Oh, how I longed to go and feel his brow. Of course I had NO IDEA how hot or cold a hobbit should feel . . . but I was willing to be trained . . . and then I wondered what his skin would actually feel like to the touch---it looked so very creamy. Yes, I would caress his brow, and then hold him snugly . . .  
  
Aragorn, his face creased in concern---oh what a sight to behold---approached Frodo and lay one of his big, strong hands on the hobbit's delicate face. This was getting good, and I settled back to watch appreciatively.   
  
"Hmmmm . . . you feel just a bit warm, Frodo. Not very, however. Likely a small chill."   
  
I KNEW it! I knew it . . . but just a BIT warm? Was Aragorn a healer or wasn't he? Couldn't he see Frodo was susceptible to such things and needed IMMEDIATE preventive care? Lots of cuddling . . . medicine . . . resting his head upon my bosoms?   
  
The next words caused me to nearly have an apoplexy.   
  
"Open your mouth, Frodo, and let's see your throat . . ." Sighing, the hobbit complied, and Aragorn knelt, taking Frodo's chin in one hand and tilting his head back as the ranger leaned *very* close and peered down past those wide-open pink pouty beauties into the moist darkness of the hobbit's throat.   
  
I watched, stupefied, my eyes beginning to glaze over, I am sure . . . my pulse revving up like the engine on a 1971 souped-up Chevy Chevelle . . .   
  
"Hmmmm . . . your throat does look rather red, Frodo . . . how long have you had a headache?"  
  
Frodo shrugged a bit as Aragorn let go of his face. "I'm not certain . . . since . . . yesterday . . ." He trailed off, but I saw those big blue eyes dart my way for a moment in trepidation before he continued. "About the time I walked up on Lily, I suspect . . . it began pounding after that incident."  
  
Aragorn stood, nodding. "Yes, sometimes fear will enable illnesses to take hold," he said with a glance at me. At that moment I considered jumping into the chasm nearest me, but only the fact that most Mary Sues' objects of their affection warm up to them kept me from doing so. That, and wanting to watch this scene continue to play out. What if Frodo got sicker? I didn't wish it on him, but what if he did? And Aragorn had to hold him . . . pat him . . . RUB him? OH God, please let me see that, I prayed. Better yet, yet me have a go at it. PLEASE PLEASE.   
  
The ranger continued. "When we can light a fire next I shall give you something for your throat. In the meantime, try to avert your eyes from her and tell me immediately if you start to feel worse."  
  
Frodo nodded and Aragorn stood, looking at all of us and directing a particularly unkind glance at me. I'm sure he still thought I had designs on THE MOST ADORABLE ONE---which I did---but he would never know.   
  
Gandalf grunted. "Hmmm . . . well then, let us get moving again, shall we? We should not tarry here too long."  
  
  
AFTER MANY MORE HOURS OF MARCHING IN SILENCE IN THE DARKNESS OF MORIA  
  
As we marched, I spent the next several hours trying to get a glimpse of Frodo's pale porcelain complexion for any signs of encroaching pinkness. But alas, I couldn't see him very well most of the time.   
  
I did not like Moria, I must confess, and wished a thousand times over I'd been dropped into the book post-Barrow-downs just as the hobbits were running naked through the grass. THAT would have been memorable. Or even dropped in Rivendell while Frodo lay ill from his Morgul stabbing. I would have at least found out where his room was and hid out on the balcony, spying on him through the window until an Elven archer shot me full of arrows.   
  
We now seemed to be going downward---the cold was quickly being replaced by hot, warm air, and I felt myself start to sweat and my shorts and underwear sticking to my rear. I'd probably frighten Frodo again if I wasn't careful.   
  
Which brings me to my current subject. How did the Fellowship cope with wearing the same underwear day after day? I'd not changed underwear in oh, I suppose a more than a day now, and it was driving me crazy. I felt itchy and hot and sweaty all over, and really, quite unfresh. The only saving grace was that 1) none of the Fellowship would be SEEING my underwear, and 2) If I was killed by Orcs, they certainly wouldn't give a flip about my hygiene.   
  
OH GOD. What if I developed a yeast infection or something here from wearing these same old clothes day in and day out? My mother used to warn me about wearing nylon underwear---she always said it didn't "breathe" properly. I was wearing nylon shorts. I'd never had to use such drugstore items before, but oh, how hideous would a world without Monistat-7 and the like be at such a time? And I could never tell the others---I would have to steal some of Aragorn's athelas leaves, roll them up, and tuck them up there, hoping that took care of the problem. I shuddered to think of it.   
  
Far in front of me, Pippin was squirming as we walked. "It's hot," he muttered, quite irritated.   
  
"Let us stop a moment and have a bit of water," Gandalf said, turning around. "Sparingly, now---we cannot touch the water in these mines. It is not safe."  
  
As we halted, I grabbed the cloth Aragorn had given me earlier out of my pocket and wiped my face with it. My hair felt truly ick, despite still being pulled back in a ponytail. But I dared not take it down---I would look like a greasy drowned rat if I did. No---I had not been blessed with lustrous, curly hair that never seemed to get greasy and always had plenty of bounce to it . . .   
  
Speaking of . . . said owner of such hair was now removing his green cloak, wiping his own sweat-soaked brow with his hand. "It is rather uncomfortable here," he said to Sam. "I would give up my entire inheritance from Bilbo right now for just a simple dip in a lake."  
  
Ah . . . I had sudden visions of Frodo naked, dripping wet . . . then listened to the rest of their conversation.   
  
"Yes indeed, sir," Sam replied. "Why don't you take your coat off, Mr. Frodo? You are looking a bit flushed, beggin' your pardon, sir."  
  
"A fine idea, Sam---I believe I will."  
  
Oh dear. Frodo was going to start removing his clothing. I know, I know---just a coat and his cloak, but nevertheless, I found it getting rather a lot hotter all of a sudden.   
  
To be continued 


	4. Conversations

TITLE: A Middle-earth Mary Sue Tragedy 4/?  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: R (likely won't be more than PG-13, but I want to be on the safe side. Some profanity . . . sexual suggestion, but no sex.)  
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time  
  
Summary: I was coerced into this. The author makes a disgraceful Mary Sue.  
  
Note: There may be some slashy overtones in some of this, as it's from my point of view as a writer of slash. However---there will be NO actual slash or sex between any of the characters (including, sniff sniff, myself).   
  
**There may be descriptions of bodily functions in certain chapters---please don't read if it squicks you.   
  
***  
  
"That IS better, Sam," Frodo said with a sigh as he languorously removed his cloak and weskit. Watching him undress---even if it was only a few surface items of clothing, darn it---was really quite luscious. You recall the shirt unbuttoning scene in the movie---oh yes. And now Frodo's lovely firm bottom was covered only by his breeches . . . and I must say, I had a most difficult time taking my eyeballs off of it. I wondered briefly what kind of upset I would cause if I snuck up behind him and pinched it---of course he would be terrified. But nevertheless, the idea of doing such a thing really entertained me.   
  
And I didn't think it was my imagination that I wasn't the only person watching Frodo and hoping for a glimpse of SOME manner of bare skin between his neck and his knees. Nossireebob . . . I'm quite certain other pairs of eyes were feasting upon him.   
  
As for myself, I had finally gotten to the root of my Mary Sue difficulties. I simply wasn't feisty enough. I mean---ALL Mary Sues are feisty. Most have high spirits and bad tempers but still maintain the respect of others. Yes, that was it---I only had a possibly limited amount of time to be here, therefore I had to adopt some feisty mannerisms, and I needed to adopt them quickly.   
  
Meanwhile, it was growing hotter and more humid as we got ready to move again. Frodo was very sweaty---we all were---and his hair was sticking to his face even as rivulets of perspiration ran down his neck . . . and God only knew what other places.   
  
AFTER SEVERAL MORE ENDLESS HOURS OF MARCHING IN MORIA, DURING WHICH MY EYES NEVER STRAYED FROM FRODO'S VELVET-CLAD TUSH . . .   
  
My feet were going to fall off anytime now. And my stomach was rumbling. I was wondering how long I could survive without Kellogg's Smart Start. Or ice cream. I would have given my right leg just then for a gigantic bowl of Ben & Jerry's chocolate fudge brownie. I bet Frodo would like that. Oh yes . . . I'd share my bowl with him . . .   
  
It was unfortunate that at that moment I failed to notice the jagged rock in my path. And I tripped, falling forward and taking Pippin, who was walking just in front of me, down also. We went down with an "oof," and I scraped my hands just a bit before I was able to rise up on my knees, gasping.   
  
Below me Pippin was rising too, but he was favoring his right ankle a bit.   
  
"Are you all right?" Aragorn asked us, turning. At least---I *think* he asked both of us---perhaps he was referring to Pippin only.   
  
"I'm fine," I answered, scowling as I watched Pippin rubbing at his leg. Oh no---this hobbit was *not* going to steal the attention away from my Frodo, who I could tell was getting sick. Uh-uh. I'd had enough of "cute little ailing Pippin" in various stories and fics and LOTR itself and I was NOT going to put up with it. It was Frodo's turn to be in ill health, dang it!  
  
"Pippin?" Aragorn asked again.   
  
"He's FINE," I answered, a bit forcefully. "Aren't you?"  
  
"Yes . . . yes, I'm all right, Strider," the youngest hobbit replied after standing up with no pain. Good. If he'd had an injury I was going to throttle him. Or suggest that Boromir tend to him---Aragorn's SOLE DUTY, in my opinion, was to make *Frodo* as comfortable and happy as possible at all times. Which he could not do with that little Tookish turkey buzzard about.   
  
"Let us take a short break," Gandalf suggested, for which I was rather thankful, as I had to relieve myself VERY badly.   
  
Going off down a short corridor that the light from Gandalf's staff could slightly infiltrate, I did my business, squatting again with no hope of Angel Soft or Charmin to the rescue. And then I realized---blast it all to Mordor . . . Aunt Flo had come for a visit. Now what was I going to do? How much longer did we have to spend in this barren cavernous place not fit for man nor hobbit nor elf nor beast? Yes, it was my curse---my curse---for wishing Boromir instead of Aragorn on Pippin. It was coming back to haunt me.   
  
I thought a minute----ah, I had the cloth Aragorn had given me earlier when I'd scraped my knee. That was it. It was slightly dirty, but would work in a pinch. My entire body was dirty now---more dirt couldn't hurt. Short of a mithril tampon, I had not much choice. When the cloth was gone, I would have to use my socks, if we were still here in Moria, and then stealthily begin to steal pieces of blankets or what-not after that. Once out of Moria I felt sure I could use leaves.   
  
I walked back awkwardly, afraid the cloth would slip out. Hmmm . . . if I had some rope, that might work well. But I knew Sam had no rope . . . WAIT . . . I was *certain* I had seen an extra pair of braces in Frodo's pack. I could steal them . . . and if they were long enough tie them under my shorts and between my legs to hold this in place . . . Yes, that's what I would do. Use Frodo's braces as an old-fashioned feminine hygiene belt. Why, it would be just like the living in the 1950s . . .   
  
That was a plan, then. I didn't know if the other hobbits had them---I hadn't paid enough attention. I knew the humans and elf had no such things. No, Frodo would only think that his braces had fallen out of his pack. He'd *never* suspect and could *well* survive without them. He certainly didn't seem to be in any danger of his pants falling down soon, much to my chagrin. Yes, I would take them at the first opportunity . . . I was in serious need here. He would NEVER, NEVER know. But I would have to think of a way of getting into his pack . . .   
  
Back at camp the others he and Sam talked very softly as they picked their packs back up and prepared to depart, not quite realizing that voices carried quite far within the walls of Moria. And Frodo was looking even more ill . . . yes, he was definitely quite pink in the cheeks.   
  
"Mr. Frodo, that 'Lily' lass is starin' at you again."  
  
Grrrr. That blasted Frodo-obsessed Gamgee would be the death of my chances yet. I was sort of hoping he'd fall down a crevasse. No, not really . . . but maybe he would fall in love with an Orc and leave Frodo alone for once.  
  
"Oh, Sam . . . don't be ridiculous. Why would she be staring at me, of all people? Unless she's after the . . . well . . . you know."  
  
"It ain't the Ring, Mr. Frodo. She's sweet on you. I've noticed her noticin' things. Like the way your eyes shine when you smile, or the way you sigh in your sleep, or the way you purse those pretty lips when you don't much like something . . ."  
  
"All right, Sam, all right. But honestly, you have the most ridiculous notions. I'm a hobbit---I just the height of her chest! Say, Sam---do you have any Old Toby left?"  
  
So he only came up to my chest. What was wrong with that? I had no problems with it, frankly. At that moment I thought seriously about calling him over for a measurement . . . ah . . . wishful thinking. He wouldn't come within ten feet of me.  
  
"How do you suppose she came by a hobbit name, Mr. Frodo? She's a human, right?"  
  
"I'm sure I have no idea, Sam. I think she's human. She could be part dwarf, I suppose . . . but she doesn't have much of a beard. Gloin once told Bilbo that dwarf women had beards."  
  
"Really? Hmmm . . . she does have more facial hair than the Lady Arwen, though---maybe she's part dwarf. She and Gimli might make a fine pair o' lovers."  
  
Part dwarf? Part dwarf? PART DWARF? Who did they think I was? Julia Pastrana, who went on tour with P. T. Barnum as the Bearded Lady? I admit, I did employ tweezers every once in a while---Tweezerman's are the best, as Allure magazine always reports---but I was hardly *bearded.*  
  
And Gimli? GIMLI? Now . . . I have nothing against Gimli, and I'm sure a nice bearded dwarf lady---and plenty of modern-day fanfic writers---would find him adorable, but Gimli was just not for me. I knew who I wanted, and I meant to at least get a good feel of him before I was zapped/swept/vacuumed or whatever else happened to send me back to my own era.   
  
"Yes, it's possible she's part dwarf," Frodo continued, "although I still think she looks more like an overweight Gollum. Now, can we move on to a much more interesting topic, such as *do* you happen to have any pipe-weed?"   
  
Pipe-weed----ick. You know . . . I had always sworn I would never get involved with a smoker. Tobacco is a real turn-off . . . uh, usually. But Frodo smoking was another thing entirely. For one, this was the first time I'd seen him smoking since I arrived--he wasn't a chain pipe-weed smoker. If there even were chain pipe-weed smokers.   
  
Unfortunately Sam did have some pipe-weed, and Gandalf ever so graciously lit a chip of wood to light the hobbits' pipes. I knew he only acquiesced because he himself wanted a smoke.   
  
"But smoke only for a few minutes, and then we must move on again," the wizard warned.   
  
Frodo placed his pipe between his darling-ly---it wasn't a word, but it is now---puckered lips and closed his eyes as he drew---SUCKING, mind you---at the end of the pipe. Yes, indeed, I strained my ears and could hear a very soft sucking sound. Very soft. Then a small sigh escaped him, even, and with his face lightly coated with perspiration, well, let me tell you---that hobbit cannot be nearly as innocent as he looks. I'm certain he was having very erotic visions Tolkien only hinted about. Probably about Goldberry, damn her stupid rippling yellow hair and silver-green dress and forget-me-not belt. Damn her to eternal damnation.   
  
But suddenly Frodo's smoking came to an abrupt halt when he began to cough abominably. I perked up a bit at that, much as I *hate* to admit it. The poor thing.   
  
"Mr. Frodo!"  
  
Frodo tried to protest that he was fine, but his face was red and he was breathing heavily as he stopped coughing and regained his breath. Oh, he was quite adorable when coughing---even with rings of smoke about him. They only added to his exotic aura.   
  
"I'm *cough* fine, Sam."  
  
I decided to risk speaking up very LOUDLY and investing in my newfound feistiness. "He looks a bit fever-flushed, if you ask me."  
  
To be continued 


	5. Stealth

TITLE: A Middle-earth Mary Sue Tragedy 5/?  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: R (likely won't be more than PG-13, but I want to be on the safe side. Some profanity . . . sexual suggestion, but no sex.)  
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time  
  
Summary: I was coerced into this. The author makes a disgraceful Mary Sue.  
  
Note: There may be some slashy overtones in some of this, as it's from my point of view as a writer of slash. However---there will be NO actual slash or sex between any of the characters (including, sniff sniff, myself).   
  
**There may be descriptions of bodily functions in certain chapters---please don't read if it squicks you.   
  
***  
  
Trying to put my feisty side forth might have been a mistake. I see that now.   
  
Frodo turned toward me, his dark eyebrows knitting together in a bit of fright and irritation before turning back to Sam. Uh oh. I think I made him a-n-g-r-y. But better an angry hobbit than a full-blown case of pneumonia. Who knows what horrible creatures were infiltrating his tender lungs and making their way all into his small hobbity system. It simply must be headed off at the pass with lots of tender loving care from Aragorn and the others, and of course . . . me.   
  
I could LIE LIE LIE and tell them I was a healer and be allowed, perhaps, to treat Frodo---to bathe him and do all sorts of things to him in the name of medicine. Oh, I *could.* I could remove his clothing, sponge him down with nice tepid water, insert herbs and creams and lotion onto him and into his various openings, and then let him lay in my lap for only Sauron himself knew how long. It would be blissful.   
  
But no. A Mary Sue wouldn't lie about *that.* So I would not . . . I would not . . . but at least my fever announcement had worked. At the mention of the word, "fever," Aragorn was on it like an Orc on a rotting carcass. A bad analogy there, of course . . . Frodo was hardly a rotting carcass. Oh no . . . but I digress. Our ranger immediately went to the hobbit and laid his hands ALL OVER Frodo's face and neck.   
  
"You have a fever, Frodo. I have some herbs in my pack that will help lower it. How are you feeling?"  
  
"All right, really . . ." I'm quite certain he said this with his lovely blue peepers narrowed in my direction---I, after all, was the one who had gotten him sick in the first place by unwittingly flashing my bottom end.  
  
Dipping a rag in cool water, Aragorn wiped the hobbit's soft, delicate complexion down a bit. I was HOPING he'd take Frodo's clothes off. . . shouldn't I be granted at least a little peek after all I'd been through? But no, that mean ranger did not unclothe the hobbit---even though I could tell, by the way he gently sponged the pale brow, that he wanted nothing more than to take my Frodo off to a dark, cozy corner of Moria and have his way with him.   
  
"Let us move on quickly, Aragorn," Gandalf told him. "We have lingered here already too long."  
  
The ranger nodded and dosed Frodo with a hastily stirred herbal drink before taking a spare blanket and wrapping it about the hobbit tenderly. Very tenderly. Oh. A. Bundled. Up. In. A. Blanket. Frodo. With just a few stray curls and his flushed---if scowling---face peeking out.   
  
"Aragorn, it's too hot with this on," he complained, but the ranger shook his head. Oh. A. Stern. But. Tender. Aragorn. Concerned. For. Naught. But. Frodo's. Health. "It will get rapidly cooler as we climb up, Frodo . . . you shall need the wrappings. Now, allow me to carry you for a bit---you do look exhausted."  
  
Aragorn was going to CARRY him!! Hobbit toting . . . gimme gimme hobbit-toting. I wanted to carry Frodo, too. Oh, I so wanted the chance. So wanted it. But at least I would get to see Aragorn carrying him, their bodies pressed together . . . and let my imagination run wild . . . so very wild . . .   
  
Not waiting for an answer, our Longshanks carefully picked Frodo up---I could tell the hobbit was red with embarrassment---and cradled him close against his own firm chest. His very firm leather-clad chest that *I* would not mind running my hands over.   
  
"Will someone carry Frodo's pack?" he asked, picking said pack up off the stone floor.   
  
Now was my chance. My chance to steal Frodo's braces.   
  
"I will carry it," I tried to speak up, deliberately intonating my voice to sound innocent, just as Frodo had when he'd declared he'd take the Ring to Mordor. But alas . . . either no one heard me or I was ignored, and the pack was given to Sam. Wonderful . . . even getting close to a piece of thread falling off the pack would be impossible with the guard dog taking charge of it. Damn Samwise Gamgee.  
  
Frodo started to protest, but a fierce---and extremely sexy---look from Aragorn caused him to shut his mouth quickly. Resigned, he leaned his head against the ranger's shoulder and we set off again, but I could hear his slight voice as we walked.   
  
"Aragorn, what is that pendant you wear? I don't recall seeing it about your neck before we arrived at Rivendell."  
  
So Frodo had been staring at the ranger's neck, eh?   
  
"Arwen gifted me with it, Frodo. I wear it in her honor and as a symbol of our love."  
  
I sighed. Way to go, hobbit. What a way to ruin the mood. Hmmmph.   
  
AFTER MANY MORE HOURS OF ENDLESS MARCHING IN THE HELLISH PITS OF MORIA . . .   
  
Well. Aragorn was now walking behind me as he carried Frodo. Apparently so that others could defend the both of them better if necessary. Unfortunately, I found myself craning my neck about several times just to get a glimpse of the hobbit, but all I could see was a blanket-covered bundle with several dark curls sticking out . . . snugly ensconced by the ranger's arms.   
  
After stubbing my toe more times than I can count and nearly falling into a chasm, I learned my lesson and kept my eyes ahead---oh dear, only Gimli's rear was there---by the strictest of disciplines.  
  
Moreover, I was growing tired walking at this fast-moving pace. I mean----I had to save my strength to carry Frodo eventually. Aragorn could certainly not keep him forever----could he? *Well, you stupid idiot, Lily, if *you* were carrying him, would *you* give him up? I pondered this thought for a moment, then decided they'd have to put a tractor beam on the ADORABLE ONE to pry him out of my grip.   
  
Maybe I was out of luck.  
  
It was finally decided to call a halt for the night. The hobbits were dead on their feet and we were all hungry. I for one was greatly looking forward to my bit of sausage, hard bread, and cheese----no, visions of t-bone steaks and steaming baked potatoes loaded with sour cream and bacon never entered my mind . . . nor did the thought of a moist chocolate cake bearing rich creamy frosting . . . or a huge baked lasagna with melted cheese dripping down its sides, along with a nice Greek salad with black olives and . . . better not to think about it.  
  
We all gathered round on our respective boulders, trying to remain as quiet and unnoticeable as possible. Sam laid some blankets out on the ground and Aragorn lay Frodo down on them---the Ring-bearer was a bit drowsy and looked fever-flushed, but not in a dire condition. In fact, he looked edible, and still managed to knit his perfect eyebrows together when Aragorn brought him some hot tea and rations.   
  
"I'm fine, Aragorn . . . really . . . I don't need it."  
  
"It will prevent the cold from developing into pneumonia or worse, Frodo . . . drink it."   
  
"All right." Obediently Frodo imbibed the concoction and then lay down on his bedroll, curling up and closing his eyes. Oh, how I wanted to crawl over to him and cradle him to my chest . . . . but no, I would have had to fight Aragorn off with a stick to even get close to the hobbit. Hmmm . . . was that such a bad thing? No. I decided not.   
  
We were all tired and spread out our blankets to lay down. I, however, kept my eye on Frodo. And his pack, which was now on the ground by Sam's bedroll.   
  
Ah . . . I had to get that pack. I was seeking it . . . all my thoughts were bent upon it. And the braces inside.  
  
Now, you're probably thinking I want to steal these things because they're FRODO'S . . . right? You think I'm planning to get some strange vicarious thrill out of tying something that he's worn around my waist and my crotch, right?  
  
Let me assure you that is *not* true. Not really . . . no . . . I simply want to secure this piece of cloth in my shorts, because right now it feels as if it's going to fall out any minute. In fact, I'd steal any of the hobbit's braces . . . but I don't know if the others brought extras. We'll see. For that matter, I would steal something from Aragorn---but quite frankly, I'm concerned with how clean it would be. I'd likely steal a belt or some such and it would be spattered with Orc blood or mud. And Gandalf? Don't even go there.  
  
So, as soon as I heard Sam's soft snores, I began to inch my way over to the pack. Aragorn was on watch---*not* a good thing for me---but he was sitting next to Frodo, keeping an eye on the hobbit, and I hoped that would divert his attention for a time. It would certainly divert mine.   
  
Stealthily I crawled . . . we wants the braces, precioussss . . . yes, we wants them . . . and my fingers touched the edge of the pack. I made a slight noise and Aragorn stirred a bit, but then settled.   
  
Now I had it. Very, very carefully, I eased open the case and stuck my hand inside . . . great---it was chock full of stuff and I was not certain how in the heck I would find what I was looking for in the darkness by feel. But try I must.  
  
I felt something very soft and slowly pulled it out---what in the hell *was* that? In the dim light, I could barely see---and then I realized---I was holding Frodo's underwear of all things.  
  
To be continued 


	6. Creeping in Corners

TITLE: A Middle-earth Mary Sue Tragedy 6/?  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: R (Some profanity . . . sexual suggestion.)  
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time  
  
Summary: I was coerced into this. The author makes a disgraceful Mary Sue.  
  
Note: There may be some slashy overtones in some of this, as it's from my point of view as a writer of slash. However---there will be NO actual slash or sex between any of the characters (including, sniff sniff, myself).   
  
**There may be descriptions of bodily functions in certain chapters---please don't read if it squicks you.   
  
*****  
  
Hobbit clothing is a curious thing, but hobbit underwear even curiouser.   
  
They were what I guess you would call "drawers,"---of a fine, very soft material, with a button drop-front just like all the hobbits' breeches. I couldn't resist smelling them---yes, I am quite strange---and found they smelled like Frodo---a clean scent, a bit like fresh water, if a trifle musty from being stuffed in his pack so long.  
  
They *were* slightly dingy, though, probably because of repeated washings in the snows of Caradhras or what-have-you. And they were damned small, too---just looking at them made me feel like a huge bloated beast. With gigantic buttocks that frighten others.   
  
If only I had some Clorox with me, I could turn them nice and creamy-white, thereby endearing Frodo to me forever, just like in a 1950s laundry detergent commercial. I had a gut feeling clean drawers were important to him---don't ask me why. I wondered, briefly, how clean his underwear had been when he was taken to Rivendell, and if Elrond raised his eyebrows at its state.   
  
Of course, Elrond was used to Aragorn's---forgive me---"less than well groomed" look. Now that ranger had to be wearing some interesting undergarments. Did I really want to see them? I think not, if the rest of his clothing was anything to go by. No, scratch that---if he was wearing them when I got to see them, I'd gladly take a gander at them. Oh, so gladly . . .   
  
Ah, well . . . time to return Frodo's underwear to its rightful place. If I could have fit into the drawers, I probably would have stolen them so desperate was I for some clean, non-sweat-soaked undergarments. Frodo would be fine going commando---oh, WOULD he!---when his current pair wore out. Or when Aragorn ripped them off the very sexy hobbit in a mad frenzy of . . . ooops, I won't even go there---my wild imagination was taking over again.   
  
Stuffing the drawers back in the pack (after taking one last sniff of them to soak up the hobbity essence of Frodo's tush, among other things) and resisting the overwhelming urge to keep them as a souvenir, I began my search for the braces. What the hell did Frodo stash in this thing, anyway? No wonder Bag End looked so untidy in the movie---dadgum hobbit holes didn't mean comfort---they meant "messy," according to New Line Cinema.   
  
And no wonder---Frodo was a regular pack-rat. Lessee . . . a pipe, no, I don't care to smoke, even if Frodo's saliva *had* touched the end of it; an apple that had seen better days; various foodstuffs, almost all of which we were eating some reasonable facsimile thereof every day; a comb---I had yet to see him use that---it was probably for his feet; a small jar of ointment of some sort . . . A SMALL JAR OF OINTMENT OF SOME SORT?   
  
For many long moments my nefarious, wicked, slash-writing little frontal lobe thought of the different possibilities. Why, if I were writing a story, this situation could be no better. No better at all. What *was* the ointment? Looking about to make sure all were sleeping---except for our brave ranger---I slowly eased up the jar's lid and sniffed. A definite peppermint aroma assaulted me. What could it be? Gingerly I turned it over, squinting to read a tiny handwritten label on the bottom: Hobbiton Apothecary Lip Ointment.  
  
So . . . Frodo was concerned about keeping his lips supple. And what lips they were, too . . .ah, he was just a few feet away, sleeping soundly, his mouth slightly open. I could hear him breathing---he sounded quite stuffed up---and then he sighed softly, shifting as if he were trying his best to find a comfortable position on the hard stone floor and failing miserably. That's when I noticed Aragorn turning to look at him, concerned.   
  
*Pick the hobbit up,* I mentally sent. For goodness' sakes, who would be able to resist scooping him up into their lap and resting him against their boso---er, chest? Not me. Nope. He was still wrapped in blankets, his head covered, just a few stray curls spilling out. *Pick him up, Aragorn. Do it, do it, do it . . . you know you WANT TO.*  
  
But no, that dubiously attentive ranger turned back around, his eyes once again looking far off into the shadows. And then he sniffed, wrinkling his nose up slightly---and I knew he'd smelled the darned peppermint lip balm I'd opened. Hastily I popped the lid back on, trying to be silent, and put it back in the pack. But not before sticking my finger in and rubbing just a *tad* on my own mouth. Mmm. Very tasty.   
  
Now, I had to do my proposed business quickly. Very quickly. Sorting through the pack, I finally found what I was seeking---Frodo's extra braces. These were a nice, serviceable brown pair---nothing fancy, for which I was grateful. I already felt a bit . . . sacrilegious, for want of a better term, using the ADORABLE ONE'S clothing for my own questionable personal purposes.  
  
Grabbing the braces, I skulked off---doing Gollum proud, I must say---into a far corner of Moria where I could still benefit from the light of Gandalf's staff, but no one could see me. Unless Aragorn or Legolas heard me---that elf NEVER slept---and then I would be in trouble. Big, fat, bloated beast trouble.   
  
Now, the braces. How best to do this? And was this *really* necessary?   
  
Yes, I decided, it was. I was in imminent danger every moment of losing the wadding of cloth in my shorts---the only thing sitting between me and *total* humiliation.   
  
Well, double crud again. I was out of fresh absorbent cloth now---I would have to resort to my socks. And if I was still in Moria when I'd finished with those, I'd be reduced to stealing pieces of blanket---or Frodo's last pair of drawers. They hadn't looked absorbent, though.   
  
Dropping the soiled cloth down a chasm---I hope to God it fell on an Orc head---I yanked my sneaker off and pulled at my sock---it did not look pleasant and smelled worse, but it was all I had.   
  
Putting the shoe back on, I placed the sock properly and then, pulling my underwear up, put the braces on over them so that the X of them fit just between my legs, holding everything nicely in place. Then I pulled the back straps up over my rear and the front straps over my hips and tied them together in knots. They were nearly the perfect size, and I must admit, as I pulled my shorts back up, that I felt my face turning red as I pictured poor Frodo wondering what had happened to his extra pair of braces.   
  
But it was working---I felt free and confident---a real 1950s woman. I was quite proud of my Middle-earth hobbit-donated sanitary belt. I only hoped the braces stayed put. And didn't I mention earlier that I found nothing amusing in this? That I got *no* vicarious thrill out of tying Frodo's clothing around my pelvis? Well, I lied.   
  
I skulked---actually, crawled---back to my blanket as quietly as a Smeagol on a log. And then nearly gasped and gave myself away as my eyeballs jumped out of their sockets. OH MY GOD.  
  
Sometime while I as gone, Aragorn had apparently given in to what must have been an all-consuming urge to snuggle the Ring-bearer. Frodo lay curled up in his lap, fast asleep, his face pressed against the ranger's middle and one arm about the man. Could my arteries take this? I doubted it. And of course Aragorn had blankets AND both his arms wrapped about the hobbit. It was a tender "I Am Protective Estel of the House of Elrond" moment guaranteed to bring tears to the Witch-king of Angmar's red eyes.   
  
I tried to make myself unnoticeable as I squinted through my glasses and stared HARD at the two of them. Hmmmm. No hanky panky going on that I could tell---Aragorn's fingers all seemed to be in proper, above-the-waist areas.   
  
See, our ranger really did have integrity after all.   
  
To be continued 


	7. Spying

TITLE: A Middle-earth Mary Sue Tragedy 7/?  
  
AUTHOR: Lily Baggins  
  
RATING: R Some profanity . . . sexual suggestion, but no sex. Boo-hoo!)  
  
Disclaimers. The usual. I make no money off of this and do not own these characters, much to my chagrin. They belong to Tolkien Enterprises and New Line Productions, and I only give them interesting---and usually unpleasant---ways to spend their time  
  
Summary: I was coerced into this. The author makes a disgraceful Mary Sue.  
  
Note: There may be some slashy overtones in some of this, as it's from my point of view as a writer of slash. However---there will be NO actual slash or sex between any of the characters).   
  
**There may be descriptions of bodily functions in certain chapters---please don't read if it squicks you.   
  
AUTHOR'S NOTE: Hobbit cuddling contained therein for Frodo Baggins of Bag End, who, although she probably would not want to be associated with such a piece of trash as this, LOL, nevertheless inspired one of the medical things in this section with her fics. :)  
  
*****  
  
Morning---if there was such a thing in Moria, which I highly doubted---came none too early. You try sleeping on hard rock with nary anything but a light blanket, with nary anything in your stomach but a bit of hard bread and cold sausage, hoping Aunt Flo doesn't make a nuisance of herself during the "night," while the ADORABLE ONE dozes mere feet away in Aragorn's lap---you just *try* it.  
  
My eyes felt bloodshot and weary, and I wasn't sure if it was due more to the eyestrain I was suffering from trying to see my way to walk through the dreadful gloom of this place, or if it was from spying on Frodo's every move through the dreadful gloom of this place, or if it was from trying to both walk AND spy on Frodo through the dreadful gloom of this place.  
  
Sigh. He was still cradled protectively in Aragorn's arms, his cheek pressed against the ranger's chest, and I could see his back rising and falling slightly with sleep. As I watched, he shifted slightly and of course, Aragorn was immediately attentive, rubbing Frodo's shoulders and bringing a hand up to coax the hobbit's wayward curls out of his eyes and back under his hood.   
  
Watching this was going to kill me. I had to turn away for a moment to avoid letting a strange squeal due to overwhelming warm fuzzies escape me.   
  
The other members of the Fellowship were rising now, at Gandalf's behest. Legolas rarely seemed to sleep, preferring, I think, to go off in dark corners and do whatever elves do; Gandalf slept a bit; and Aragorn rested only when he wasn't concentrating on Frodo---and when in the hell was he *not* concentrating on our Baggins? And who could blame him? Legolas, schmegolas . . . yes, the elf was good-looking, but . . . he knew it. Frodo, on the other hand, was oblivious to his innate sexy hobbit-ness . . . he was a CHALLENGE, in other words. And he was unaware of the hungry looks directed his way . . . which *drove everyone practically crazy with desire.*   
  
The elf would probably have dropped his leggings had any reasonable person but me asked, but Frodo . . . no, the Ring-bearer was chaste. He was pure--or seemingly so. If there was anything I had learned during my intense study of self-help dating books such as "Mars and Venus on a Date," it was that hard-to-get works. Oh yes.   
  
Of course . . . then there was the other theory I had from my book, "How to Make Anyone Fall in Love With You." Unfortunately, all these self-help books were doing *NOTHING* to even get me so much as a touch of Frodo's tender flesh, but . . . it has been proven that pygmy chimpanzees give each other the "copulatory gaze" ---an intense, deep stare that arouses a strong sense of sexual attraction---before coitus. And so the theory goes that PEOPLE---which to me, translates as human and hobbitkind---who stare deeply at others can also evoke powerful feelings of love.  
  
And I'll be damned if Frodo didn't give every person he met that "copulatory gaze" every chance he got. Of course, probably not intentionally, but once those eyes were trained on you, you were toast---especially if he was acting all deliciously martyr-like. Frodo-deep-in-martyrdom was quite a sight to behold, especially when he was miffed at something.   
  
The other hobbits were refreshing and attractive in all their hobbity essence, I suppose . . . Pippin would have been quite cute had he not annoyed the living hell out of everyone and tried to be the center of attention most of the time. As he was doing now.   
  
"Why can't we have a hot breakfast?" he whined. "And my back hurts from sleeping on that stone. And I'm tired of the smell of goblins. And why can't I be carried about, like Frodo?"  
  
"Frodo is ill, Pip," Merry cut in. "He's got a bit of fever. Look at you---never sick a day in your life."  
  
"I'm not feeling so well now."   
  
I felt this was a good time to interject my two cents worth of feistiness again and I didn't care one whit if it made him madder than a hornet. "You look plenty healthy to me," I said. "Healthy and well-fed and rosy-cheeked, just like a proper hobbit."  
  
Of course he turned and folded his arms, staring at me and scowling. I'm certain he wondered why *I*---the newcomer to the Fellowship---the stranger---offered him unsolicited advice. Well, because I felt like giving him a piece of my mind, that's why. Because he wasn't Frodo. Because he was irritating me, complaining and whining while STILL not being Frodo.   
  
"Well, miss, my stomach aches and my ankle hurts from when I tripped and fell yesterday. I don't think I can walk very far, despite your observations."  
  
Merry sighed, and suddenly, I really liked Merry a whole lot more than I'd realized and that he deserved SO much more credit for holding the Fellowship together than he got. That he put up with Pippin's antics while also tempering them showed what a fine and respectable person he actually was. Of course, sometimes I *do* think Merry should have just turned his cousin over and given him a proper spanking.  
  
"Look, Pip," Merry said, "you'll be fine. We can't divide the packs up anymore so someone can carry you. I'm sorry, cousin . . . I'd carry you if I could, but I can barely get myself over this sort of terrain."  
  
"It's not fair." Suddenly the little sucker's face lit up and he turned to me with a smirk. "Why can't *you* carry me on your back? You look strong enough."  
  
ME? ME? ME? ME? ME? Carry PEREGRIN TOOK through the Mines of Moria? No . . . this is NOT what I signed up for when I was dropped here unasked. I didn't care about cuddling that Tookish termite. I'm well aware that many, many fans in Far Left Earth or Far Right Earth or whatever you would like to call it today would have fought over the honor, but trust me, I wanted none of it. I wanted Frodo, dadgum it, Frodo Frodo Frodo. And what was this about looking strong enough? Did I look that . . . manly?  
  
"I don't think that will work," I told him. "I'm quite clumsy and likely to fall and hurt you."  
  
"I'm light, and I bounce pretty well when dropped."  
  
"Pippin---"  
  
"Well, Merry, I'm tired."  
  
"Really---" I began, but unfortunately for me, Gandalf had overheard our conversation and came to join us. "Peregrin Took, what IS this about walking? You have slept the entire night and now, should be feeling quite well rested enough. Cease your complaining."  
  
"My ankle's sore, Gandalf, from when I tripped yesterday. Truly, Gandalf---it hurts whenever I put my weight on it. I asked her to carry me on her back---just for a little while, is all."  
  
"Mmmm . . . yes, I see . . ." Gandalf stroked his beard, thinking, and then looked at me questioningly. Double damn. I could say no to anyone but Gandalf (er, or Frodo or Aragorn or Boromir or Sam or Merry) but he was so kind and wise and well, I looked up to him. Of all the Fellowship, Gandalf treated me as if he looked beyond my strangeness.   
  
Sighing, I nodded, irked beyond belief. A true Mary Sue would volunteer her services no matter what, after all. And if Frodo saw me being sweet to his little cousin, why---it might make a GOOD impression. Hmmm . . . "All right, all right---I'll carry you, Pippin, but ONLY for a little while."  
  
The youngest hobbit was quite excited about the prospect of not having to walk all day and nodded, eating his breakfast. I should have felt proud of myself for being such a Good Mary Sue-maritan, but I was just irritated as all get out. While the others ate, I contemplated how I was going to steal one of Legolas's wicked knives and cut Peregrin Took's hair off in the middle of the night without him catching on.  
  
I was still thinking on this ridiculous notion when a loud noise suddenly split my eardrums. Gimli, of course. Gimli in the morning was not pleasant---loud, wheezing . . . if the dwarf had blown his nose and sputtered anymore I was going to stuff his beard up his nostrils the next time he took a nap. Mean of me, I know, but in the cold/hot dampness of Moria, my patience was wearing thin.  
  
Ah, my favorite hobbit was waking. Time to divert my attention from the dwarf and observe darling Frodo in all his drowsiness.  
  
It was just not fair that someone looked *that* good in the morning. His eyes weren't puffy, his hair was not messed up---not, actually, that you would have been able to tell, since all the hobbits' hair was rather mussed all the time, I suppose---and although he did blow his small red nose, it was quite lovely---certainly nothing like Gimli's water-buffalo snort.  
  
Of course who WOULDN'T be bright-eyed and alert after spending the night in Aragorn's lap? Ah, I would die if given the chance . . . Actually, I think Frodo was rather surprised when he woke---his lovely eyes opened wide, he stared at the ranger for a moment, whispering something I could not catch though I tried, and then began to clamber up in a very self-conscious manner.   
  
Of *course* the ranger was having none of it. Noooooooossssiiiirrreeeeee.   
  
"Frodo, how do you feel?" he asked in that smooth, sultry voice, applying his hands to the hobbit. "You're obviously still feverish."  
  
"I feel better." But the words were rather . . . hesitant . . . and interrupted by a tiny sniffle.   
  
"Right. Come, sit down while I prepare something for you to eat and drink."  
  
Frodo scowled, but sat propped up against some rocks, well-wrapped in blankets, while the rest of us began eating our super-scrumptious breakfast. I vaguely wished I'd dropped into Middle-earth during the Lothlorien period, where at least we'd have nice provisions. And lembas---would I get a chance to sample that, I wondered? It had to be better than what we had been eating. I hoped it tasted as good as a SlimFast Breakfast Bar---but how fattening was lembas? Hmmm . . . something to think about.   
  
Out of the corner of my eye I noticed Sam going to sit by Frodo, his eyebrows drawn together with worry.   
  
"Mr. Frodo . . . you're looking a wee bit . . . worse."  
  
"Sam, please quit worrying about me . . . I'm fine, really. Just tired and stuffed up, is all."  
  
"Mmmm. If you'll pardon me for asking, sir, but have you moved your bowels lately?"  
  
"Sam, what a question!"  
  
"Well, sir, my ma used to say if you wasn't regular and all, it could cause some very bad problems. I *knew* I should have brought that enema bag from Rivendell; it weren't very big at all and I could easily have fit it in my pack---"  
  
"Sam---"  
  
"---for you, Mr. Frodo---all we'd have to do is lay you over that rock yonder and pull them pants down---"  
  
"Sam, honestly---"  
  
"---and it's real easy, sir, just stick that little tube between them buttocks right where it's puckered a bit and---"  
  
"SAM, stop it."  
  
"---let it flow. I used to do such for my brothers all the time---"  
  
"Samwise Gamgee, of all the confounded nuisances . . . enough!"  
  
I think my eyeballs were popping out right about then, as were Frodo's. But when confronted with the ADORABLE ONE's features crinkled up in irritation, Sam retreated. "All right, all right, Mr. Frodo . . . I suppose if you get to feeling worse you'll let us know."  
  
"Thank you. I'm quite sure we don't have time to sit about and discuss my health all day. And trust me---to do that here, you'd have to tie me down---and you without rope, too."  
  
I saw Sam's face sadden as he was reminded again of the missing, much-wanted rope he hadn't brought along on the journey. Poor hobbit. He just wanted to help his Mr. Frodo, as I did. Frodo was the Ring-bearer. His health was of utmost importance, regardless of what we had to do for him. If we had to stop and wait while interesting treatments were administered, so be it. We would all just have to suck in our guts and bear the delay without question.   
  
Uh-oh. It was time to pack and leave. That meant I had to carry Peregrin Took. Hmmm . . . I wonder if I could hobbit-swap? One hobbit for another? Carry Frodo and let one of the men or the elf carry Pippin? That might work. Why not?   
  
But then I saw Gandalf and Aragorn bend down in front of Frodo, making sure he was well wrapped in thick blankets so he wouldn't get chilled. He did indeed look to be shivering just a bit, sitting huddled with his knees drawn up and his head resting on them, just a few dark curls straying about his very angelic face. A pitiful sight to behold, to be certain.   
  
"Here, Aragorn, I can carry our Ring-bearer for a while," Gandalf said, rising and shifting his staff to the crook of one arm. Very carefully Aragorn scooped the hobbit up, transferring him tenderly to the wizard's arms, where he clung, resting most securely and snuggly in the folds of the old gray robes. In fact, I'm sure my eyes were tearing up as I watched the vivid blue eyes close, the dark lashes resting on his cheeks, as he slumbered on Gandalf's shoulder. And then I looked at Pippin and my own eyeballs narrowed at him. Hmmmph.   
  
To be continued 


	8. The Way to Marzarbul

Being a Mary Sue was highly overrated, I thought to myself as I followed the others, carrying Peregrin Took on my back. If my name had been Alpernertathiluthiel or some-such I'm sure I would have had it much easier. But as it was . . . I was stuck here marching in Moria and carrying the wrong hobbit, who, I might add, was heavier than he looked. While I was no push-over, I was a bit irked that with all the strong males in the Fellowship, they were not more chivalrous and offering to carry the grimy little porker themselves.   
  
Of course, Boromir had his hands full already---oh, did he, and oh, did I ever want to trade places with him. But my dreams of hobbit-swapping were not to be, judging by the way the big Gondorian carried Frodo practically molded to his body. Frodo was well-wrapped in blankets, the tricksy little circle of gold hidden, but nonetheless, the man kept looking down at his sleeping charge's face with an expression one could only describe as intense.   
  
A moment later I saw Frodo tremble a bit and sneeze; the noise echoing in the cavernous space. He must have had a stuffed-up nose. Oh yes, those delicate flaring nostrils had been quite red the last time I looked. Quite red. And then my hobbit coughed. Several times.   
  
"Aragorn," Boromir called, pausing, "perhaps we should stop for a bit, so that you may give Frodo another dose of medicine. He feels a bit warm."  
  
Immediately Aragorn walked back to Boromir, pulling the blanket back from Frodo's brow (as it was wrapped about his head, giving him a look not unlike a small Russian peasant. A very ADORABLE and noble Russian peasant.) and smoothing Frodo's curls. The hobbit was just slightly awake, drifting in a warm drowsiness that made me yearn to clutch him to me---it was almost painful, so great was the urge.   
  
The ranger's face, too, was very concerned, and I like to think it reflected the yearning on my own. "Let us stop then at the first opportunity, when we have a secure area . . . I've some liniment that might help his congestion if rubbed on his chest."  
  
*Oh yes, let us stop and rub cream on Frodo's chest. Please.*  
  
Aragorn continued to regard Frodo, slipping a hand into the hobbit's blankets to ostensibly feel his temperature. "Boromir, allow me to take him for a while and ease your burden."  
  
The Gondorian looked taken aback. "He is no burden, Aragorn, and I am glad to be of help. If nothing else, he is keeping me warm with his body heat in this dank place."  
  
"That is well and good, but we should take turns, at least. Although he is not heavy, he is still heavier than your pack, and it wouldn't do to tire yourself out." Brooking no argument, Aragorn held out his hands for Frodo, who was again sleeping peacefully and quite unaware that he was about to be the victim of a manly tug-of-war.  
  
But, as it turns out, the Gondorian hesitated, conceding to the son of Arathorn's wishes and reluctantly transferring said hobbit over.   
  
Aragorn looked most relieved, pressing Frodo to his chest and making sure he was warmly covered. Then, he did something that quite truly made me *very*angry. Holding Frodo in the crook of one arm, he tugged his pack off with one hand and threw it down, fishing a small jar out, before slinging his pack back on and straightening. Gandalf gave us the signal to move on.   
  
Oh, I was mad now.   
  
For I smelled a camphor-y smell and saw Aragorn looking down, his back to me, and DARN it, if that ranger wasn't rubbing that liniment onto Frodo's chest at that moment. I could see nothing from my spot, just Aragorn's stupid elbow moving slightly. From the way his neck was bent, staring down at Frodo, he'd either discovered the hobbit's rosy nipples or the mithril coat, one or the other. And I wasn't there to see. Damnit all to heck.   
  
Soon enough, my real world came crashing back as the Took fidgeted, kicking me in the ribs with his dirty feet. I have nothing against hobbit feet---I find them quite cute, actually, in their furriness, a bit like animal paws. And of course, feet that don't wear shoes will certainly get dirty . . . but the honest-to-God truth is that I don't ever want *anyone's* feet touching me if I can help it. Except for Frodo's. In fact, I could see them up ahead, sticking out of his blankets, until Aragorn felt of Frodo's toes ever so tenderly. I gather they must have been cold, for then our ranger pulled the blankets down and covered them up. Sigh.   
  
Back to Pippin. Not a very interesting subject, but it bears warning others about. To top it off, his breath would have put Smaug to shame. Granted, all of us could have used a little Crest (except for Frodo, I'm sure---I refused to believe *my* hobbit suffered from halitosis) but Pippin's mouth was fumier than I'd ever smelt. I think he must have indulged in too many sweets in his young life and had a few rotten teeth festering in there somewhere.   
  
I would be very interested to see, once we got out of Moria, if the Fellowship attended to their dental hygiene in any way, such as scrubbing their mouths with twigs or any other cool wilderness practices I'd seen in old Westerns and wagon-train movies. Somehow I doubted it. I guess when Orcs are coming at you with bad intent, a few caries seem trivial in comparison.  
  
However, believe it or not, Pippin's halitosis was by FAR not the worst part---the worst was that he talked *constantly,* even though Gandalf told us over and over and over to BE QUIET. Lest the Orcs capture and rape and torture us and then eat us in small pieces. And that would have been the easy way to die.  
  
Gandalf may have seemed a bit harsh in the way he talked to the youngest hobbit, but trust me, Gandalf held back nicely. If I'd been the wizard, the irritating speck of hobbitry clinging to my back would have been turned into a piece of melba toast with a flick of my staff LONG ago.  
  
Actually, I would have made Peregrin Took the Ring-bearer, just to rid the world for a little while of his presence. And then I would have left Frodo in Rivendell, all snug as a bug in a rug in his warm room, with lots of elves and Bilbo and me, of course, for company, and as much food as a hobbit could possibly want, with plenty of books to read.   
  
Oh yes, I'd tuck him into that big feather-bed in Rivendell and massage his limbs and whatever else he wanted done and I would plump him up with delicacies and good country Shire foods. Oh yes, his cheeks would be rosy when I was through with him. Isn't that the dream of all Mary Sues?  
  
But, I was not a dead professor nor a round, hair-covered New Zealander. So.   
  
Suddenly I felt Pippin yanking my ponytail, and then, the hobbit's accented voice just in my ear---not to mention that breath.   
  
"Your hair's a strange color," he said. "Well, actually, more than one color! What happened to it?"  
  
Ah. So there it was, then, my first Mary Sue experience. Of course all Mary Sues had unique hair, and it was always a point of conversation among the Fellowship members. It didn't matter that the world was about to be overtaken by darkness and every living creature not bowing down to Sauron wiped off the face of the earth---Mary Sue's hair was always a source of delight and wonderment. I smiled to myself, feeling a bit smug. "Why do you ask?"  
  
"Well, it's strange . . . not like Goldberry's or Legolas's. The ends are light and the roots are really dark, and underneath, it looks really dark too. Kind of blocky. I've never seen hair like this before."  
  
My smile was fading.   
  
"It's bleached. The color is taken out of it, and it's grown out a bit."  
  
"Oh, I see, like when Pervinca puts juice on her hair and sits in the sun," Pippin said, and I could feel his small hand grasping my hair again. "Why do you want to take the color out for?"  
  
"Because I don't like my real hair color."  
  
"Well, that's awfully strange. But then, I guess it is . . . nondescript, not like the elves' in Rivendell or, as I said, Goldberry's. Hers was long and rippling and golden, really lovely. Frodo certainly liked it . . . I even saw him touch it once or twice in wonder. But the ends of your hair look sorta . . . burned off. Were you in a fire?"  
  
I gritted my teeth, determined not to comment as I digested this tidbit about Frodo and this interesting hobbity observation. Damn Goldberry and her blasted rippling hair. If I'd been screwing the oldest, most addle-pated, and arguably one of the most powerful people in Middle-earth I'm sure I could have had the hair I wanted, too. And burned! Of all the . . .   
  
I'll tell you what was burning. I was still wearing Frodo's extra pair of braces tied between my legs, of course, to my utter embarrassment if anyone knew. They'd been doing a fine job of holding everything in place, but were chafing rather unpleasantly between my flabby thighs. I'm sure I had a bad case of eczema or contact dermatitis or jock itch down there. Now I'd have to steal some sort of ointment from Aragorn's bag. I was sure he had some.   
  
Of course, there was the added difficulty that carrying Pippin on my back, with his legs wrapped about my waist, was causing them to . . . loosen just a bit. Uh-oh.   
  
But there was no help for it now but to march onward, grimacing.   
  
AFTER MORE ENDLESS HOURS OF MARCHING AMID THE DARKNESS, DAMPNESS, AND RANCID DWARF-CORPSE STENCH OF MORIA . . .   
  
Well, we were finally here. In the dreaded Chamber of Marzarbul, waiting for our gooses to be cooked. I didn't really care---I was just glad to have Pippin off my back. Ugh.   
  
Gandalf's voice rang out. "They are coming. We cannot get out." On that very positive note, the wizard closed the giant dusty tome, eyeing all of us. Aragorn, expecting a need to defend the others, had finally set Frodo down, and the stubborn hobbit was standing up and looking all flushed and sniffly and endearing.   
  
My thoughts were suddenly interrupted, because that's when it happened. You know the drill. That idiotic Took curiosity got us in trouble once again and suddenly, drumbeats grew louder, and faster, and closer. I was scared out of my wits---I didn't even have a weapon, for criminy's sake. I needed to grab an axe from a dwarf corpse, and quick. Perhaps this would be the chance to show my Mary-Sueness in action---I was pretty sure I could hold my own in battle, if I didn't get beheaded first. I was *very* good back at home with a cordless power drill.  
  
Sam's voice. "Mr. Frodo!"  
  
Ah, he'd noticed Sting glowing blue. Anyone wonder why everyone BUT Frodo notices Sting glowing in the presence of Orcs? Because they're looking *down,* at, if I may be so crude, Frodo's crotch or his buttocks. A good thing he wears Sting low on his hip, because as long as he does, and we're all with him to look there, we'll always have advance notice of an Orc onslaught.   
  
After all, I remind you, does anyone EVER notice Glamdring glowing? And it does, people . . . glows very obviously, I tell you. But does anyone in the Fellowship ever notice it? Um, no. Because no one is staring at Gandalf's crotch to see if they can determine the size of his wizardhood, thank you.   
  
Thanks to the ADORABLE one's wearing snug breeches, we might survive another day.   
  
To be continued 


	9. Cave Troll

Immediately after Sam's exclamation that Sting was, indeed, glowing blue, of course Boromir and Aragorn were all intense, sweaty manly action---Aragorn rounding up hobbits while Boromir uttered the famous, "They have a cave troll." And then, yadda yadda yadda, all hell broke loose. Legolas proved himself yet again to be an assassin, performing feats a howler monkey would be jealous of; Sam bopped Orcs with a frying pan; and I was just---terrified out of my mind and searching for tender hobbit flesh.   
  
Where had he got to, anyway? I *had* to find Frodo in this melee, so that if I developed some latent Mary Sue powers I could save his life and earn his undying gratefulness and the unmitigated use of his body at any time and for any nefarious reason I wished for all eternity. Did I say I just wanted to cuddle him? I quite possibly lied, I think.   
  
But there was little time to think more, because Orcs were surrounding us and I'd never been so terrified in my life. Around me the air was thick with the sound of crunching bone and growls and shouts of "Aragorn!" and "Legolas!" and "Boromir!" and "Frodo!!!!!" (the last was me yelling) as the Big People of the Fellowship looked out for each other. Not me, though---I was a quivering lump of terror and lousy at defending myself.   
  
Which miffed me a little. I mean---the least Aragorn or Boromir or Legolas could have done was to have stayed with me and shielded me with their bodies. They would have done that for any Mary Sue, even though most MSes were hell on wheels with weapons. But me---the one who REALLY needed protecting---did they lift one chivalrous finger to keep my precious feminine virtues intact and safe from Orcs?   
  
No. Just, unfortunately, from themselves and Frodo. Hmmmph.  
  
Grabbing a scimitar from the claws of a dead Orc at my feet, I tried to fend off the advancing creatures while I made my way toward where I'd heard higher-pitched hobbit voices. A moment later, I turned to see Boromir swinging his sword, his hair flying around him in sweaty strings.   
  
"Better watch your back," he yelled, "for the Orcs would dearly love to get their filthy paws on you."  
  
"Oh?" I'm sure I stood up a little straighter then and preened a bit. Of course the Orcs would want me---I was soft and female and had breasts. It felt rather nice to have someone *finally* acknowledge that, too.   
  
Boromir continued, cleaving an Orc's head in two and turning to cut down another. "Yes, indeed. You would make a fine meal for them."  
  
He moved off again and I'm quite sure missed the hand gesture I aimed at his back. And that gesture nearly cost me a hand, too, as an Orc swiped at me and I narrowly dodged its pass. There was nothing for it---I was going to locate the hobbit and grab him and make a run for it. I was going to be a yellow-belly and run scared. Otherwise, since I didn't appear to have any Mary Sue powers yet, I would die here very soon. Diediediediediediedie.   
  
Whimpering and muttering words to myself such as, "where is he where is he where is he," I finally managed to cross the rocky bone-strewn floor of the chamber and locate my quarry hiding behind a very large, very wide column of rock. Merry, Pippin, and Sam were there, along with, mercifully, the ADORABLE ONE, his ivory skin all aglow with sweat, cheeks flushed with a bit of fever, and his eyes wide with fear as he brandished Sting. Oh, he was the bomb when frightened---how I wanted to take him in my arms and soothe him . . . run my hands through his ringlets . . . comb the fur on his feet . . . huddle on the ground and clutch at him while this fighting disappeared . . .   
  
"Frodo, where are you? I'm coming to help!" I yelled over the din, immediately sidling up to him as he maneuvered about the rock to look at the action going on. I had to remind myself to sidle gingerly, though---Frodo's braces, which were still holding everything in place between my legs, chafed and itched terribly, and if I could have stuck a hand down there and scratched without anyone seeing, I would have.   
  
And to make matters worse, I greatly feared the braces were coming loose around my hips. What I wouldn't have given just then for a even one of those Moddess belt---pad contraptions I used to shudder at in my mother's old Sears catalog.   
  
But back to the Frodo at hand. For some reason, when he saw me, no relief was evident. Instead a look of alarm crossed that exquisite visage and he shuffled to the other side of the column as quickly as he could. Which was pretty fast and stealthily, given that he was a hobbit, though he was still very ill and sniffly, poor darling. His glances back toward me frightened me, though, and I kept looking over my shoulder expecting to see something horrible after both of us.   
  
I backtracked and hurried around to the other side of the column to join him and that's when I realized he had shuffled away again, that squeezable hobbit bottom just inches out of my reach. And suddenly it hit me---he was scared of me! *Little old me!* The one who was, after all, most concerned for him---*I* would have remembered to bring a rectal thermometer on the quest, unlike others I could name.   
  
No sooner had my brain stumbled onto these thoughts than another problem presented itself---the brace ends that had been knotted about my left hip had come undone and were slipping down ominously. Not a good scenario, but with Orcs abounding, I hardly had time to do anything about it, so I prayed the other side would hold and squeezed my legs together tightly. It was hard to move around like this, but by performing a bit of a kangaroo hop, I could make do. Some elegant Mary Sue I made, walking around like a wallaby.   
  
Oh dear, Frodo had escaped my clutches again and was now on the other side of the column, so of course I went after him. I needed to talk to him, to *reassure* him, to tell him I only wanted to hug on him a while, and that I would leave his orifices well enough alone. But just as I neared he looked back at me and his full lips froze open into hideous O of horror. Then, those ever-so-gorgeous baby blues grew round as saucers and I realized that this time he wasn't gazing at me after all---thank God for that, judging by his expression. And so I turned to have a look for myself.   
  
The very, very, large, very vicious Cave-troll monstrosity was staring and hemming and hawing at both of us.   
  
"HELP!"   
  
"ARAGORN!"  
  
"HELP!"  
  
"ARAGORN!"  
  
Our screams mingled together amidst the raucous activity going on about us. Obviously, Frodo lacked faith in my ability to protect him.   
  
I immediately dashed toward Frodo, intending to push him (oh, how I would die for glorious hand contact against that hard mithril-coated chest . . .) as far away as possible to safety. Unfortunately, however, the whole wad of crap between my legs shifted and I realized with a loudly muttered oath that one end of Frodo's braces had slipped out and was now visible, swinging down under the left leg of my athletic shorts.   
  
No time to worry about it. No time. No time. Must move, and move quickly.   
  
But when I tried to hobble toward the ADORABLE one, I only made it a hop or two before being jerked back roughly and falling flat on my butt. Then a cold, leathery thing brushed my leg and I knew, to my horror, that the Cave troll had wrapped a huge hand firmly about the braces end sticking out of my shorts. And was now pulling me toward him.   
  
Holy crap. Holy crap.   
  
All sorts of curse words came to my mouth, and many made it out, mingling with hobbit screams for Aragorn and Legolas. Yelling in a most undignified manner, I scrabbled for some sort of hold on my hands and knees---but the troll was winning this tug-of-war. Clearly the only thing to do was untie the braces altogether and free myself. It was either lose my dignity entirely or be eaten, and I supposed the latter was . . . well, probably a worse option.   
  
The troll continued to pull until the brace end was stretched out between us at least a couple of feet and I felt the breath leaving me as the ends I was fumbling to loosen tightened around my right hip and bottom. Help, help, help . . . please let me get out of this with no one the wiser and with head and both legs and arms intact. Please please . . .   
  
I had just nearly extricated myself when a gleaming blade sliced right through the tautly stretched brace, freeing me so quickly I fell to my stomach and got the wind knocked out of me. Thank goodness, the rest of the braces were still knotted about me and in no danger of coming loose. Finally catching my breath, I looked up to see my rescuer.   
  
Oh dear God. Aragorn stood there for one split second totally immobile, gazing with a slightly puzzled, curdled-mouth look at the raggedy end of the brace on the ground before he was forced to fend off the Cave troll again. The hobbits, in the meantime, had moved nearer, and even in the midst of my embarrassment the thought came that Frodo looked so sweet and brave with his short sword and pink runny nose.   
  
Unfortunately, Frodo caught sight of his missing braces lying chopped off on the floor, and he stopped dead still, his nose wrinkling. It was his undoing. Aragorn was momentarily stunned by a blow to the head, and I was not able to reach Frodo in time, and so it was that, just as the battle was dying around us, my sweet unaware hobbit got speared by that horrible, hideous Cave troll. Just below where his pink nipple probably lay, if I'd been lucky enough to see it.   
  
"Frodo!"   
  
He clutched at his front, his face creased in a rictus of pain, and then he collapsed in the most darling fashion, the poor doll. I hated to see him in such pain . . . hated it . . . but I knew he was wearing the mithril coat and would be all right. Therefore, this was just more of an opportunity to see Aragorn tending to him. Why mess with canon?  
  
I rushed to Frodo's side, *of course*---for I wanted to be the one to lift him and announce he was still alive. I would hold him as he struggled to take air back into his lungs and feel his body move beneath my hands, I would. And if he vomited on me, I would consider it an honor. But damn it, I wasn't as lightning quick as Sam, who hurled himself at my legs and knocked me over. Nobody was as fast as Sam when he was in a hurry to get to his master, and he could be quite brutal, too. Gimli had nothing on him, trust me.   
  
Well, it appeared I was mistaken---Aragorn was a virtual race horse when it came to Frodo. Oh, delicious . . . so delicious to see the concern in the ranger's face. The terror. The despair. As Sam and I and the others gathered about the now quiet chamber, Aragorn knelt and turned Frodo over, gently lifting him up and much farther onto his lap than was *really* needed.   
  
"He's alive!" Sam exclaimed, and around me I could hear sighs of intense relief.   
  
"I'm all right. I'm not hurt," Frodo said, breathing heavily. His words were punctuated suddenly with an appallingly painful-sounding sneeze, and he pressed grubby hands over his ribs, trying to ease the pain. I was pretty sure he was only a hair's breadth away from throwing up. Pre---tty sure.   
  
"You should be dead! That spear would have skewered a wild boar, or even her," Aragorn said with a jerk of his head toward me, while Gandalf uttered his standard line about there being "more to this hobbit than meets the eye." Well, no &#^@---and I wanted to see it, too! All of it . . . oh yes, I'd gladly examine every inch of him that didn't meet the eye.   
  
Now, Frodo looked down and seductively pulled his shirt open, revealing glimmering mail and even more impressive skin beneath. It was supremely obvious to me---being the only woman in the group, of course---that "this hobbit" was not so innocent as he appeared and was quite enjoying everyone's open--mouthed gape as he began to do what appeared, at first, to be a strip tease.   
  
"Mithril," Gimli muttered, and I think he *might* have been the only one there truly captivated by the metal vest and not the hobbit inside it. Because Aragorn and Boromir, especially, had to cop a feel of the mithril, rubbing their hands all over Frodo's chest in slo-mo. But I saw them touch his skin more than the metal and their fingers lingered---at least, I'm sure they did---over the areas where his nipples lay much longer than necessary. And I also noticed that Frodo's eyes widened a bit when they caressed him, too, and his cheeks flushed an even rosier pink than usual.   
  
I desperately wanted a feel of hobbit as well, but just as I leaned over and stretched my fingers toward him, Frodo snapped his shirt shut and sighed, falling back exhausted into Aragorn's embrace as if his strength had just given out. Of course, this had two effects on me 1) I wondered if he'd planned that deliberately before I could touch him, 2) I really couldn't complain, could I, since seeing Frodo collapse into the ranger's arms was, well, basically what I lived for?  
  
To be continued 


End file.
